


Undead Massacre

by TurboTavia



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Cholera, Death, KIND of canon, Pain, Suffering, Undead, Zombie Apocalypse, its not gonna be dutch, micahs not here yet, whos gonna die first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-24 22:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20713331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurboTavia/pseuds/TurboTavia
Summary: It's 1899, months before the Blackwater massacre for which the van der Linde gang would eventually gain so much recognition, and the gang is living a peaceful life out west before shit hits the fan. The disease plaguing the nearby town of Armadillo has evolved, causing men, women and children to turn into savages and forcing the van der Linde gang to evacuate to safer terratories. But will they manage to get further East before the disease catches up to them?Basically a spin-off of Undead Nightmare from RDR1, except that it takes place in 1899 with the van der Linde gang. Hope you enjoy. :)





	1. Chapter 1

Undead Massacre 

If there’s one town in New Austin you’d visit to leave behind a life of happiness then it’s Armadillo. Not only has it never really prospered, but recently it’s fallen under disease and disarray, leaving the already-tiny population dwindling and those who remain to suffer on their doorsteps, coughing blood into handkerchiefs. There is one thing that it has to offer though, and that’s decent alcohol at affordable prices – maybe more affordable since the outbreak of Cholera, but hey, a drink is a drink.

Arthur has often been found by other gang members drinking himself silly in the saloon, the only person who’s really keeping it in business, but who is Quentin – the bartender – to judge? So long as the big brute keeps downing his whiskey, the saloon’s doors will be open. Sometimes, he notices, Arthur is accompanied by one or two others; a shorter man with a greying beard and a skinny man with greasy hair and a leather jacket, and they’ll spend their coins on drinking each other under the table.

The greying man has won on all occasions.

Today is no different it would seem, and Arthur sits alone at a table nursing a glass of cheap whiskey, his hat set aside. His hair has grown long these past few months where he’s neglected to cut it, often drawing glares from the well-groomed Dutch van der Linde as he passes his open tent in the mornings. He used to cut it, and shave, but in this dry, desert heat he can only bring himself to shave quickly and be done with it.

He scratches at his stubbly chin with a frown then takes a sip of his drink, sucking in air as alcohol burns down his throat, and places his glass back on the table. Arthur had originally asked John to join him today, but he had been told that Abigail needed him for whatever reason, and Uncle is never invited; he just shows up. He doesn’t care in all honesty, he’s just disappointed that it means drinking alone. It makes the day drag.

The doors to the saloon swing open and a scurry of footsteps behind him catches Arthur’s attention and he turns around in his seat, resting an arm over the back of it as he meets Tilly’s eyes of all people. He’s about to smile when he catches her expression and finds himself frowning instead. She’s panicked for whatever reason, eyes wide like a deer’s and her little chest heaving as if she just ran a marathon. He pulls himself to his feet and meets her halfway to the door as she runs up to him.

“Tilly, what the hell’s the matter?” he asks, holding her wrists steady as she catches her breath.

“There’s--… I don’t quite know how to say this, Arthur, but something bad has happened. We gotta get back to camp right now! Dutch said he wants everyone back as soon as possible.”

Arthur nods at Tilly, judging by her demeanor that it’s not a lie. With a sense of urgency, he grabs his hat from the table and stuffs it on his head, turning again to leave the saloon, Tilly in tow. He shoulders his way through the doors and is momentarily blinded by the sun, raising a hand to shield his eyes, then strides over to where Boadicea is hitched. She whinnies a greeting to him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, instead sticking his foot in the stirrup and swinging himself over her back. He gathers the reins and glances over his shoulder at Tilly who sits astride one of their wagon horses. She gives him a nod that’s she ready, and Arthur kicks his mare into a gallop growling, “Yah!”

It doesn’t take long for them to near the camp, seeing as they’re pitched not too far from town this time around as Dutch was feeling cocky after the successful robbery job they did in Tumbleweed last week. He watches it grow larger on the horizon until he’s close enough to hear the typical camp sounds; horses whinnying, wood chopping and, of course, the booming voice of Dutch van der Linde as he addresses the gang.

Arthur slides from Boadicea’s back and walks up to where most of the others are circled around where Dutch is stood on a crate, his hands splayed in gesture to get his point across. He almost smiles seeing the leader who shaped him into the man he is today, but chooses not to when he remembers why they’re here. He stands next to Sean and folds his arms, glancing at Hosea who sits nearby.

“Now I hate to be the bearer of bad news, folks,” Dutch continues, “but it seems that even in the worst of times there must be someone to be responsible for doing so. And I take up this role with a heavy heart.”

He places a hand over his heart, and Susan scoffs. “What could possibly be so bad? We been found out?”

Dutch meets Susan’s gaze, his eyes dark. They get darker depending on the light they’re in, Arthur has noticed, and right now they look black. “I cannot rightly say, Miss Grimshaw, for I myself have only heard whispers, but there’s something coming. Something bad. We’re hiding amongst the dying and by doing so have put ourselves in great jeopardy. Now, I know nothing for sure, but I have been told on many occasion that the disease plaguing these parts is not Cholera, as we so thought.”

There’s a moment of silence whilst the gang mulls it over before young Lenny speaks up, “Not Cholera? Then what is it?”

“I’m not sure myself,” is the reply he gets, “but I have overheard from travelers that the disease evolved in a way,” Dutch gestures shapes with his hands, “grown from what it was and developed more symptoms, worse ones. I didn’t care for these whispers at first, but--...”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s only just occurred to Arthur how crazed the older man looks. “But just today I saw it for myself. Men overrun with these desires, these bloodthirsty wants and a look in their eye that turns your blood cold. Men with ripped skin and an insatiable hunger, like savages, tearing one-another and producing unholy noises.”

Arthur stares Dutch down, not believing what he’s hearing, but the evidence is all there. Never before has he seen this great man, this mentor of his be so broken, so _scared_. He swallows a lump in his throat.

“I’d think myself a crazed man if Hosea hadn’t been right there with me,” Dutch says, and Arthur looks back at Hosea again. He’s just as shaken up, holding a cup of coffee with two unstable hands and doing his best to ignore the glances he gets. “But there’s one thing I know for sure; we are not safe here. We need to move, and we need to do so before this town is overrun with these… beasts, these savages.”

Nobody moves at first, letting Dutch’s words sink in. Arthur overhears Sean muttering “Christ almighty” under his breath beside him, and he tips his hat to hide his expression which no doubt looks fearful. Then Susan’s voice breaks the silence.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Everybody, get to packin’ up! Mr. Pearson, over here. Miss Jackson and Miss Gaskill, those wagons up by there. Let’s get moving people!”

And then suddenly the gang is a-bustle with movement, each gang member moving to their respective stations to pack up their belongings or prepare the horses. Arthur glances up from beneath his hat at Dutch who offers him a weak smile before turning on his heel and throwing the flaps to his tent open, disappearing inside and leaving Arthur standing alone and feeling confused and fearful.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur rides with his head bowed, letting Boadicea’s steps rock him as he takes the opportunity to think. They had been planning on moving east to Blackwater soon anyway, but this whole situation is just messing with his brain, almost giving him a headache. It feels unreal, like a bad drawn-out joke without a punchline, and no one is laughing. Normally the gang moves in a loud caravan, sharing jokes or singing songs, but nobody feels like laughing, and not even Uncle wants to tell one of his stories.

They’ve been on the road at least two hours by now but it’s slow going. They won’t make Blackwater today, that’s for sure, and they’ll probably have to stop off by the Lower Montana for the night. Unless Dutch thinks it’s better that they keep on going, he supposes.

He glances to the side as Lesperance matches Boadicea’s stride and nods to John. “You holdin’ up okay?”

John shrugs. “I’ve seen better days. Would be grateful for this all to be over. I ain’t never seen Dutch like this. You think he’s gonna be all right?”

“He’s a good man. We just gotta have faith in him. He knows what he’s doin’. We just gotta be there to support him,” says Arthur and John nods.

“I guess you’re right.”

They ride in silence, appreciating each others company, and Arthur hears a wildcat yowl in the distance. He and John ride side by side as the caravan squeezes its way through an uphill gorge, and he looks up at the steep cliffs on either side; checking for bandits, he supposes. After a while, John speaks up.

“So… You believe him?”

“What? You don’t?” Arthur asks, casting John a glance.

“I’m not sure. I don’t want to,” John concedes, and Arthur sucks in a breath. He shakes his head.

“I don’t think any of us do. But you saw how shaken up he was, and Hosea too. Even if they were wrong about what it was they saw, they definitely saw _somethin’_ bad, and that’s reason enough for me to want to get the hell out of there.”

John goes quiet again, head bowed, then says, “I guess you’re right. I’m gonna check on Abigail.”

Arthur nods and John turns Lesperance around the moment they’re free of the gorge to ride towards the back of the caravan, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts once more. He hasn’t liked being alone ever since Dutch’s speech earlier. There’s just this uneasy feeling in the back of his mind that he himself will turn on the gang members any second and start tearing the flesh from their bodies… It’s an awful thought, one that rises bile in the back of his throat.

“All right folks,” calls Dutch from up ahead, and the wagons slowly come to a stop in a half circle around him. “We’ll be stopping here for the night. That leaves us enough time to reach Blackwater by tomorrow afternoon. Don’t bother setting everything up, but please see to it that everyone has a bed for the night, Miss Grimshaw. Arthur, ride with me?”

Arthur nods dumbly and nudges Boadicea forwards as the gang sets into motion setting up for the night, and he and Dutch continue walking, leaving the noises of the camp behind them. The sun has almost set but is still high enough for long shadows to be cast all around them, giving Arthur the odd sensation that someone is watching them. He shivers.

“Cold?” Dutch asks, catching his eye and Arthur shrugs.

“I guess so. Suppose I’m just worried about everythin’.”

Dutch takes a moment to think before saying, “You have every right to be. It was never my intention to panic the gang, and I hope the women are faring well, but the things I saw, Arthur. They… They weren’t human, and I for the first time in my life wanted to run.” His voice is low, so quiet it’s hard for Arthur to understand him without leaning closer.

“That’s nothin’ to be ashamed of, Dutch. It’s natural to want to escape if you know you ain’t gonna win a fight,” he replies, a little unsure in himself. He’s never been one with words and he’s uncertain whether it helped, but Dutch has a grateful look on his face.

“Thank you, Arthur. That doesn’t excuse my behavior though.” He sits upright in the saddle and offers Arthur his trademark smile. “Come on, there’s a ranch nearby I believe we should pay a visit to.” 

The MacFarlane’s ranch is situated along the New Austin train line and stretches from Pike’s Basin to the plains of Silverwater Creek, Arthur discovers. It’s enormous and seems to be doing well for itself, bustling with life and activity as workers herd cattle, throw bales of hay and wrangle horses in the corral, and the air is thick with typical ranch smells – saddle soap, manure and freshly cut wheat. He and Dutch ride along the main road past the ranch’s general store where a man outside tips his hat to Arthur, who returns the gesture, and towards the farmhouse bordered by a white picket fence where Dutch dismounts. It’s almost surreal how picture-perfect this place is to him, and he slides from his saddle in a daze, following unsurely in Dutch’s meaningful footsteps up the stairs to the front door.

Dutch raps on the door and they wait on the stoop, Arthur distractedly glancing around himself before it opens to reveal a man with a large white mustache who frowns at them. “Can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so, my good sir. My name is Aiden O’Malley and this is my most trusted friend and companion Arthur Callahan. We have just arrived from a long ride up from Armadillo where the unthinkable has transpired.” The man seems unsure, but at the mention of Armadillo he frowns.

“Something bad has happened? What, other than the disease plaguing the streets?” he asks with a dark chuckle. “I wasn’t hoping to stick around much longer. Wanted to get east before it infects me or my daughter.”

“I am mighty sorry to hear that, and I regret to inform you that it may be worse than you had originally hoped,” says Dutch, getting a worried look in return. “May we come in?”

The man reluctantly opens the door fully and turns to head back inside. Arthur casts Dutch a worried look, but Dutch only smiles reassuringly and follows the man inside, Arthur close behind after having shut the door. They’re met with a seating area in front of a fireplace, a worn leather couch waiting for them as the man drops into an armchair on the side. He gestures for the two to sit, and they do.

“Now,” the man says, lighting a cigar and taking a puff, “why are you here?”

“Well you see, Mr. MacFarlene,” Dutch begins then pauses, resuming after the man nods, “we were staying not to far from Armadillo up until today and as far as we could see, all was well, despite the circumstances. But just this morning as we were stopping in town for supplies we were ambushed.”

Arthur watches Dutch with interest. He hasn’t heard what went down just yet, and though he’s sure Dutch is spinning the yarn as usual, he’s almost certain the story is real.

“Ambushed by men,” Dutch continues. “At least, they appeared to be so. Imagine if you will a man without his skin in places. A man who feels no pain and looks through you with unseeing eyes, and makes the unholiest noises. I assure you I am not lying when I say that these men were no longer men, but monsters that hunger for human flesh. We were lucky to escape with our lives, but I feel that the area is no longer safe, sir.”

Mr. MacFarlene strokes his mustache as he mulls over Dutch’s words, almost not believing him. He chuckles weakly. “So, these monsters are coming for us, is that right?”

“It’s the truth, sir. Take it as you will, but I am almost certain that within days the disease, or whatever it is, will spread further east and reach you and your daughter. That trip you mentioned? Take it, as soon as you can, and don’t return until you are positive that the threat has subsided.”

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air as Dutch’s words burn their way into their minds, the cogs turning as they process them. Eventually Mr. MacFarlene stubs his cigar out on the sole of his boot.

“I appreciate the concern, Mr. O’Malley, but I believe we’ll be just fine as we are,” he says. “Thank you.”

As he’s excused, Arthur gets to his feet, but Dutch hesitates before rising to meet him, eyes still on Mr. MacFarlene. He tips his hat and says, “A pleasant day, sir,” then heads for the door with Arthur. His hand meets the doorknob as Mr. MacFarlene speaks from the other side of the room.

“Oh, I will.”

Arthur frowns at how laid back the man is and he follows Dutch outside then down the steps towards the horses. Wasting no time, Dutch immediately mounts up, looking down at Arthur.

“Come on, Arthur. There’s no talking sense into some people,” he says, starting down the road.

Arthur nods and swings himself into the saddle, collecting his reins before giving the farmhouse once final glance. His eyes meet those of a young woman looking down at him, but he looks away and kicks Boadicea into a trot after Dutch.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I have been pumping out chapters left and right! Thanks to everyone whose liked it so far. You're inspiring me to keep on going. ♥

The camp is in full swing when they get back. Miss Grimshaw and Mr. Pearson have set up makeshift bedrolls for everyone around the campfire - and a lean-to at the side of a wagon for Dutch and Molly – and that’s where most are right now. Arthur can see that they’re talking amongst themselves over the fire, Mr. Pearson is turning a spit with some kind of meat, as they approach.

Dutch silently slides from the saddle and Arthur watches him head over to where Hosea is sitting, before dismounting Boadicea and busying himself with unsaddling her. He’s hooking the girth into a stirrup when a voice pipes up behind him.

“You doing okay, Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur turns his head to see Jenny and smiles at her as he lifts the saddle from Boadicea’s back, allowing the mare to shake herself. He throws the saddle over the hitching post as he talks, “Howdy Jenny. You holdin’ up okay?”

The young woman nods but looks unsure. “I’m alright despite everythin’. I’d like to head back to Cholla Springs soon though. That’s some nice open country we just don’t get up this ways. But it’s nice enough.” Arthur nods in agreement.

“We’ll be back before long, don’t you worry. But for now it’s best we keep our distance,” he says, walking over to the cliff edge to look at the horizon, Jenny by his side. He lights up a cigarette and grips it between his teeth, hooking his hands on his gunbelt.

“Do you think we’ll be okay up here?” Jenny asks, and Arthur nods.

“We’ve put some distance between us and Armadillo. We should be fine. And besides,” he gives her a sideways smile behind the cigarette, “I’m on guard duty tonight so the camp’ll be extra safe.”

Jenny laughs. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”

The two of them stand side by side overlooking the lower lands of New Austin, letting a comfortable silence fill the air between them. After everything today, it’s nice to watch the world move without feeling the weight of it on your shoulders. Soon Arthur’s cigarette is burnt out and he flicks it over the edge.

“Have you...” Jenny starts, “You haven’t happened to come across that pond lily you brought me last time, have you?”

“Oh right, I’d forgotten about that,” Arthur replies, pulling his satchel around to his front and opening the top flap. He digs around a little before pulling out a small, white flower and presenting it to her. “Here.”

She lights up and carefully plucks it from his fingers, pausing to admire it between her own slender ones. “Simply beautiful, isn’t it? I’m certain Leonard will be happy. Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur bashfully tips his hat and Jenny plants a kiss on his cheek. “Aw, t’ain’t nothin’. Jenny. You watch yourselves now, you hear?”

Jenny grins back at Arthur as he walks back towards camp, and he finds himself chuckling. He watches the view for a few moments longer before also heading towards the others, to join in with the singing that Uncle has just started.

He finds himself jolting awake as his forehead hits the butt of the gun propped between his legs. He must have fallen asleep on guard duty, and he frowns with annoyance at himself. Arthur grunts as he pulls himself to his feet with the help of the tree he’d been leaning on, and stretches, his joints popping. A rustling in the distance catches his attention and he picks up his gun, pointing it that way.

“Who’s there?” he calls out. The silence that follows is painful. He knows he heard something, or someone. Arthur slowly edges forwards towards a line of bushes a few yards away, keeping just enough distance to put a bullet in whatever is in there, when suddenly Lenny emerges.

“Christ, kid, I almost shot you!” Arthur says, lowering his gun again with a chuckle, but Lenny isn’t laughing. Instead he starts coughing, a hand rushing to his throat as he falls to his knees. Arthur throws his gun aside and runs to keep Lenny upright. “Kid? Lenny? Are you okay?”

He tries to say something but the coughing envelops him, rattling his body and making his eyes bulge. Arthur is in shock, not sure whether to hit him on the back or run for help. He’s never seen coughing like this. Lenny’s not suffocating.

Despite Arthur’s grip on him, he falls heavily to the ground with a thud, making Arthur curse for having let him slip. He grabs at the young man’s jacket to drag him upright again when he notices that Lenny’s stopped coughing. In fact, he’s not breathing at all. Arthur rocks him at first, then slaps his cheek, then shakes him hard by the collar yelling, “Lenny! Lenny, what the hell--… Lenny, wake up! Help! Help!”

The sound of commotion back at the campfire reassures him that help is on its way when Lenny’s eyes suddenly fly open. With inhumane strength, Lenny throws Arthur to the side, the air leaving his body as he connects with a tree. Arthur scrabbles on all-fours to get back up, looking at Lenny in horror who contorts himself in ways Arthur’s never seen a man move. He dislocates a shoulder and Arthur hears the dull pop, then makes a noise comparable to the shriek of a mountain lion and rushes Arthur, his wide eyes seeing red.

A gunshot echoes across the plains and Lenny falls dead just inches from Arthur’s face whose chest is heaving. He drops back onto his ass, gasping for air and struggling to say something, anything, as he notices Dutch stood a few feet away. Someone screams and Arthur’s vision goes black.

The next thing he remembers is waking up on his bedroll, warmed by the fire but still freezing cold to the core. There are voices around him but he can’t seem to open his eyes. He can just make out who’s talking.

“We didn’t move far enough,” Hosea says. His voice is frantic, reminding Arthur of the time he nearly got caught after a small job in Blackwater. He’d been so angry about that, but Arthur had joked that at least his bounty posters would resemble his handsome features better.

“We moved as far as we could without putting everyone at risk, Hosea!” Dutch snaps. “I won’t have the lives of our family put in jeopardy by traversing these lands at night.”

“So you’d rather they be threatened by the unholy rather than some ordinary bandits?” Hosea cuts back and they both fall silent. “We have to move. If whatever it is has reached this far, I don’t know where we’ll be safe. But we’d probably be better off somewhere east.”

“We were on route to Blackwater already--,” Dutch begins.

“Blackwater isn’t enough! When will you see that, Dutch? Blackwater will never be enough. You’ve always had some high hope about making it big in that town but it doesn’t have anything to offer you besides the noose, and that’s provided these monsters don’t get you first.”

“Don’t call them monsters.”

“Would you rather me call them mutations? The unholy? Whatever they are they’re out for human flesh, Dutch, and by God we’ve got enough of that going around here.”

“Lenny was _not_ a monster!”

Hosea is silent again and Arthur can almost see the cogs turning in his mind. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, softer. “I know that, Dutch. He didn’t mean to do what he did. He was just… infected.”

Dutch makes a kind of agreeing noise, and then there’s the sound of footsteps as someone walks away. The other stays by him – Arthur can tell by the shadow being cast over him from them standing between him and the firepit.

“God, save us from this infection,” Hosea says, laying a warm, wet cloth on Arthur’s forehead. It feels good and he feels himself drifting to sleep again.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a disgusting taste in the back of his throat when he finally manages to open his eyes. The world is dark, and at first he’s worried that he’s blind, but soon his eyes adjust and he can make out the shapes of gang members laying around the dying campfire, and he breathes a sigh of relief. What he overheard earlier is still racing through his mind and he lays a hand on his chest to calm his racing heart. Lenny tried to… Lenny tried to kill him. What the hell went down yesterday?

“You’re awake then, Arthur?” Hosea says, passing a cup of coffee down to him which he accepts gratefully.

“I suppose,” Arthur replies, only now noticing how raspy his voice sounds. He tries to clear his throat but winces at the pain, putting his free hand up to massage it. He sits in silence instead, sipping on his coffee.

“We need to get moving soon, so once you’re feeling better, saddle up.”

Arthur is taken aback at the sudden roughness of Hosea’s tone, casting a weary glance up at the man. From this angle he looks half demented, his eyes glowing from the dull light of the campfire, and Arthur feels a shiver run up his spine. It’s not an expression he’s familiar with seeing on the old man, and it’s only now dawning on him the severity of the situation. They really need to get moving, and he needs to get over himself and get the hell up.

So he puts down his cup and rolls onto his side, pushing himself up with an arm and grunting with the effort of it. Hosea watches him, not even offering him a hand, and Arthur thinks they really have gone to hell. He’s finally level with Hosea but can’t seem to look him in the eyes. Instead, he tips his hat and mumbles something about getting Boadicea ready, and Hosea watches him go.

Walking over to the horses he’s able to notice that most of the wagons and horses are already packed up. Dutch must have won the argument last night then as everyone seems to be waiting until morning before traveling, so Arthur just decides to do his part and saddle his mare and pack up his few belongings. He doesn’t feel tired anymore anyway, so he’ll likely just wait until morning for when they leave.

Boadicea nickers a hello as he approaches, automatically drawing a smile to Arthur’s face, and he reaches out a hand to pet her neck. “Hey, girl.” She turns to nuzzle his side in hopes of a treat, but he doesn’t have anything right now so she makes do with rubbing her forehead against him, grunting in pleasure as she scratches that sweet spot she can’t normally reach. Arthur chuckles and lets her do her thing, grateful for an ounce of normality in a crazy time like this, his smile genuine and loving like the day he was first blessed with her.

Dutch had made a big deal out of it on his eighteenth birthday, decking her out with a satin bow on her saddle while Hosea took him to town for a new pair of spurs. He’d been so grateful for those spurs, never really having had a proper present before, but Boadicea was the best gift. Almost as good as being blessed with a new family. He’d become one of them that day, one of the van der Linde’s official members as opposed to the spotty apprentice he’d been, and he was beaming with pride for weeks afterwards.

Arthur runs a hand down his mare’s nose, brushing her shaggy mane from her eyes as he looks at her. “I’ll take care of you, girl, don’t you worry.”

She doesn’t respond but she seems to understand, closing her eyes against the touch. He maintains the rhythm a few minutes longer, then turns to pick up his saddle, carefully laying it over her back and shuffling it into place. Soon the girth is cinched and he’s ready to go – he just needs his bedroll – so he heads back to the cliffside to overlook New Austin once more.

It’s nothing like yesterday, and yesterday was already bad enough. His mind is jumbled and full of dark, awful thoughts. He watched Lenny die for Christ’s sake. The kid tried to kill him. What the hell is this disease and why is it changing people so much? What were those noises, Christ, those fucking noises he made. They weren’t human, weren’t natural, and the thought of them causes him to break out in goose bumps, making him rub up and down his arms to warm himself back up again.

Arthur stares out into the distance, eyes firmly on the horizon. He can just make out the shift in light as the sun is starting to rise in the distance, and with after a short while he has just enough light to make out his surroundings. It doesn’t look much better in the light though – everything still looks hopeless and dreary – but it’s clear enough for him to draw. So he sits on a rock and pulls out his journal, carefully sketching out the rough outline of the gang sleeping nearby and their current camp, then writing a short caption by the side. His heart isn’t in it however and he finds his pencil drooping from his grip.

He sighs and closes his journal again, catching the pencil between the pages, when the sound of someone approaching makes him look up and into the eyes of Dutch.

“Morning son. Did you rest well after...” Dutch trails off.

“I’m fine, Dutch. I don’t need nobody coddling me. I just want us to get the hell out of here.”

“I know, I know,” Dutch takes a seat beside Arthur on the rock and pulls out his cigar, taking a moment to light it and take a drag. “We’ll get moving once everybody’s awake. God knows it’s been a long night.”

“What happened after I passed out?” Arthur asks.

“The women took you back to camp and the others and I… Well, we buried him, Arthur. It was the right thing to do. Hosea said a few words. It was nice.”

Arthur looks sidelong at Dutch who’s staring out at the horizon, blowing out smoke slowly. There’s so rarely a moment where Dutch doesn’t have much to say, but Arthur understands why he’s at a loss for words right now. They all are, him as well. Dutch sees Arthur looking and offers him the cigar.

They pass the cigar back and forth for some time, watching the sun rise across the lake far in the distance and bathe the lower lands in a hopeful, bright light. It’s one hell of a sight and on any other day Arthur would be itching to gallop across it, but right now he just wants to keep his distance from all that down there. It’s ironic really, running from the freedom of the west and straight into the open arms of civilization. But what choice are they left with? Arthur’s not even sure if the disease managed to follow them up here, or if Lenny was just unlucky enough to have been infected whilst they were still back in Cholla Springs. Either way, he’s dead now, and Arthur can’t help but feel like it’s his fault. He should have helped him somehow, or at least tried to. He balls his hands on his knees.

“It’s not your fault,” Dutch says softly as if reading Arthur’s thoughts. “There’s nothing we could have done.”

Arthur nods dumbly but doesn’t say anything. He’s worried his body will betray him and break down, but he can’t do that in front of Dutch. So he avoids eye contact and gets to his feet.

“Yell when we’re goin’,” he mumbles, rubbing his nose as he walks back to camp where the others are waking up.

Miss Grimshaw is clapping her hands as Arthur approaches, calling in that loud voice of hers, “Come on, ya lazy bastards, time to get movin’. Quit your complainin’ Mr. Callander and git up!”

Everyone’s grumbling and shuffling to their feet, rolling their bedrolls whilst yawning, and Arthur slips past to collect his own. He hooks it under an arm and heads over to Boadicea, attaching it to her saddle. It doesn’t take much time before everyone else is ready to go too, and within the hour they’re back on the road again, a dark cloud hanging over them as they leave Lenny’s body behind.


End file.
